The silver moon hangs o’er the tranquil lake, Where weeping willows their quiet vigil keep. A lonely boat drifts by for memory’s sake, As distant temple bells lull dreams to sleep. Once vibrant halls now stand in jade-green moss, Where poets carved their verses in the stone. All mortal glory bears this timeless loss— The moon remains, though dynasties have flown. Yet in this hush, the lotus blossoms rise, Their petals open to the starry dome. They teach how beauty never truly dies, But finds ...
